


Authority Enchained

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Bondage, Captivity, Hand Jobs, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Martingale, drunk!Javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Take your revenge," he said, fixing Valjean with a stare when at last he was pushed against a crumbling wall. They were alone. Darkness surrounded them. The street was deserted; somewhere in the distance there was still the sound of trumpets. The brandy made it harder to think. His eyes kept being drawn to small details, lingering there. The whiteness of Valjean's hair in the light of the moon. The gleam of his eyes – was this the look of a man about to kill? The glint of a blade.</p><p>Ah, at last. There it was then.</p><p>"That suits you better." His lips twisted into a sneer. His bound hands grappled at the wall at his back. It would still be quick, he told himself. Valjean would cut his throat, bleed him like a butcher. That, too, was well. It was still death, and death at the hand of a criminal was not unwelcome. He would die upright and proud, and not long after him, Valjean would die when the barricade fell.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Grantaire decides to share some brandy with the spy. Valjean, when he comes to free the spy, is faced with a drunk Javert. Also, Javert finds the martingale quite distracting and infuriating.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Using the prompts "hunters become prey," "it's not gay if you're sufficiently drunk," "public arousal" and "reunion".
> 
> Inspired more than a month ago by [this gifset](http://esteliel.tumblr.com/post/77119923443/placeduchatelet-holyfiremolotov-go-chris), which sparked a discussion about how that Javert had to be drunk, and what fun a drunk Javert at the barricade could be.

They had tied him to the table, and at first Javert had been grateful. After spending the night tied to the post, the muscles of his back and his calves were tight knots of pain. It was good to lie down. And what he had feared the most had not come to pass so far. Valjean had not returned to the tap-room. Valjean was outside, with a gun in his hand. Maybe he would be shot. Or maybe he would return to watch Javert's demise at last. It did not matter, in the end.

The wood Javert rested on was hard, but he did not mind. What discomfort there was came from the position he was forced into. The martingale held him securely bound. He had tested the knots a few times by moving under the pretence of shifting into a more comfortable position, but the rope did not give, and every attempt to struggle threatened to cut off his air, or chafed painfully between his legs. 

He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply after his first and only attempt to find freedom from the ligatures that bound him. There was no escape to be found here, and that was as he had expected. Still, his conscience was eased by the knowledge that he had tried to gain his freedom even at the cost of the pain of his tightened bonds. 

As his breathing returned to a less laboured rate, he turned his head to look at the corpse laid out on the other table, shrouded beneath black cloth. The commander of these insurgents had been right. This was the hall of the dead. Soon he, Javert, would join this man, and that, too, was no surprise, for he had been aware of that possibility even before he had infiltrated this small rebellion. 

Now, though, with the coarse rope tight around his throat and his wrists, pulled so taut that with every move, it chafed painfully against sensitive flesh, he felt reduced to little more than a beast waiting for the butcher. Let them shoot him sooner rather than later then, he thought, his head falling back onto the table once more, biting back a groan at the bite of the rope between his legs. He would die as he had lived, and soon enough, these hours of discomfort would no longer matter. 

There was a sound at last, somewhere above him. He looked up with sudden fear until the pull of the noose was no longer bearable. A long silence followed, and only when he relaxed against the table once more with the dignified surrender of the man who does not fear death because he has no reason to fear anything, someone slowly made his way down the stairs.

Javert raised his head with difficulty, taking the bite of the rope as the price to pay for the sight of a dishevelled insurgent in a wine-stained waistcoat who was eyeing him with a bemused smile.

"Are you a corpse?" he asked, and Javert bared his teeth in the terrible smile of the trapped tiger. 

"I am," he said in a low voice, for there Enjolras had spoken true, too. This was the hall of the dead, and he felt no fear knowing the fate he faced.

The man looked at him in confusion, but nevertheless came closer. Javert realized that he held a bottle in his hand, and gave off the stench of strong spirits. "How strange for a corpse to address me!" His face was lit by a certain guileless charm, as if there was truly nothing remarkable about conversing with a corpse on the morning of his own death. "I am Grantaire. What is your name, Monsieur corpse?"

"I am Javert," he said, and smiled with haughty satisfaction into the insurgent's gently confused face. "I am of the police. You see how it is. So I am a corpse, although I may yet breathe and speak. The bullet that is needed to render me so is still otherwise needed, yet your leader assured me that I will be shot before all of you fall. Which makes him a corpse as well... and you, Monsieur."

Grantaire was silent for a moment after Javert delivered that last sentence, although he came closer to curiously stare down at Javert's face. Javert found the experience profoundly unsettling. He was used to being observed closely by the filth of the streets, and yet he had never found himself helpless in quite such a way before, exposed to not only eyes, but also to all violence another might choose to do him.

He shifted again, barely able to bite back a sound of discomfort when his sensitive flesh was pinched cruelly between the split lengths of rope that ran between his legs. The man was little more than a schoolboy, dishevelled and confused from drink, like any romantic fool swaying on the streets after a night of drink and song and women. There was no harm to be feared here, and yet, even though he knew that the most he had to fear would be the bullet he had been promised, the many hours he had spent bound and unable to move had made his helplessness a reality he could not escape from. He was not afraid – yet, even so, being at someone's mercy was a sensation new to him and he wanted to strip it off, shuddering like a horse beset by flies, uncomfortably aware of his body as though he were wearing a coat too small for comfort.

The student smiled distractedly at his words and sat down on the table near his head. "You have come to spy on us then? That is well, there was much to spy on, I am sure. Shall I show you the greatest secret of this barricade?"

He leaned closer, as if to whisper into Javert's ear, and Javert, who knew himself a corpse, nevertheless could not help but listen for what secrets this young man might have to spill, even though escape was impossible, and all secrets would die here with him.

Grantaire smiled very slowly. "I found where he hid it," he breathed. "Father Hucheloup's finest brandy! An entire bottle." He raised the bottle in his hand, then placed it on the table next to Javert. 

Javert bared his teeth again. "Is this your secret? Where is your gun? Your powder? Your cartridges? Will you hold the barricade with this?"

Grantaire was still smiling. He curled his fingers around the bottle, his touch deceptively gentle, and Javert, when he wanted to lean away from that image with instinctive discomfort, grimaced when the noose around his neck and the taut rope between his legs reminded him of his state once more. He had thought that to spend what hours remained him on the table would at least grant him some comfort, but he had not expected to be bound in such a way. With his slow movements on the table, the rope had tightened and slackened, parting and tightening and gripping again with every motion until it now felt as if the coarse hemp held his prick as if in a pincer, every motion chafing against sensitive, cloth-covered flesh in a way that was both painful and humiliating. He could not raise his head enough from the table to look down at himself without making it even worse, and so he prayed that his situation would not be too obvious to the insurgent who had come to torment him with his presence.

"If you do not mind," he said calmly at last, "I shall return to being a corpse, and you can go and find your leader and await your death with him, if he will even have you like this." He could not quite bite back a grimace at the man's state, though it was to be expected, of course. Who would revolt against authority but those who already revolted against all that was right by their very existence in the gutter of society, and those who should know better but were too drunk on wine and brandy or foolish beliefs? No, it was easy to see where this one in particular fit in, and Javert, who had been glad for the glacier-like calm of the insurgent's leader, would prefer to await the bullet that was to be his fate in silent contemplation of a life that had always followed the letter of the law.

"What do you mean, like this?" Grantaire's smile vanished, and he frowned. "What sort of spy are you that you shy away from the secrets to be found at the bottom of the bottle? Greater men than you have found it an excellent instrument of extracting answers, and indeed it is torture far sweeter to surrender to the grape instead of the knife, I would think."

"Do what you have to do, but do it elsewhere." Javert proudly turned his face away. "This is the hall of the dead, do not dishonour it with crude jests."

Grantaire laughed as he opened the bottle. He left the table for a moment; when he returned, he held a glass. "Ah, but are we not both corpses? You told me so, Monsieur. How can one corpse dishonour another? Come, a toast to death! Or to life, if you so want. It should be one and the same to a corpse."

Javert did not even deign to reward that speech with a response, apart from a haughty gaze, prepared to await the dawn or his death with the same rigid calm. He did not listen when the glass was filled, or when Grantaire tasted the spirit he had found, although he was roused from his determined silence when the rope that kept his body to the table suddenly slackened.

"There, sit up!" Grantaire said, then laughed when Javert slowly followed that command. "What a trick to see a corpse move at my order! A magician I am indeed. I find the old grocer's hidden treasure, more valuable to me than gold, and of more use to a corpse, and I make corpses sit and talk at my command! Now come, good corpse, a drink with me!"

Javert would have denied the drunkard's request once more, had it not been for the way the rope chafed against his aching prick now. He had been able to ignore it for a long time; now, with his flesh trapped and squeezed most cruelly between the twin lengths of coarse hemp, he imagined his skin rubbed raw and red and had to force himself to bite back the sounds of discomfort that arose in his throat when he sat up. The glass touched his lips; he looked up to glare at the student. The glass was tilted; he was sore and in pain, pale with humiliation at the way he could now see the aching length of his prick press against the fabric of his pants that was pulled taut against him by the length of rope that bound him like an animal. When the brandy touched his lips, he swallowed, heat burning its way down his throat so that he had to fight not to cough. Certainly this one indulgence could be allowed a man who was already a corpse, he reasoned with himself. Anything to escape the maddening distraction of his aching flesh and the tormenting, tight rope that scoured his flesh raw and stole his breath when he was not careful. 

"There, you see. Corpses can be perfect gentlemen. Another toast to death then, or to our rebirth as corpses."

Javert refused to raise his head when the student poured and drank. His throat and tongue still burned with the strength of whatever spirits the boy had unearthed. It would not do to be found reeking of brandy by the National Guard, once this was over. But also, he thought with furious denial, it would not do to be found like this when they came to shoot him, in discomfort and almost obscenely displayed by the ropes they had used to bind him. To have Valjean see him like this – impossible. 

Javert licked his lips, then raised his head despite the pull of the noose when the glass was lifted once more. He wanted to groan at how the motion made the rope pinch the head of his prick, imagining calloused fingers. He drank deeply this time, horrified by his thoughts. Anything to make his body forget such rebellion. All his life he had been irreproachable; it would not do to die like this.

The drink had filled his stomach with a strange heat, while tendrils of pain and shameful need spread out from where his cock lay stretched out beneath the ropes. He scowled fiercely after he had drunk, fidgeting for a more comfortable position, though at last he had to sit unmoving again, flushed with disbelieving anger at the way the discomfort was even more pronounced. The rope gripped him tightly, like cruel fingers clenching around him, and the image that thought conjured up once more made him gasp for breath and turn away from Grantaire to hide the way the flush had crept up his neck.

Valjean was still around, he reminded himself. Valjean, true to who he was, had joined the insurgents for whatever reasons made men like him rise against the law again and again. He could enter the tap-room any moment, and what then?

Again Javert began to struggle. Horror made his hands twitch in their bonds, in turn tightening the noose, the rope once more pulled so taut between his legs that the pressure against his aching prick made him press his thighs together, though that did nothing to assuage his need. He panted, helpless and furious because of it, overwhelmed once more by the thought of hands on him. Large, rough hands to press against where it felt like the rope had rubbed his skin off...

The thought alone was almost his undoing, and he barely managed to swallow a groan. Instead he turned his face against his shoulder, wondering for a short moment if the student was drunk enough that even bound and aching like this, he might be able to escape. Let them shoot him as he ran. Better that than to die like this, with this animal heat burning heavy and coarse between his legs, succumbing to the call of the gutter he had guarded against for so long.

Grantaire's laughter was heavy with the scent of brandy. "Forgive me, Inspector, but you seem to be in a tight spot. Or shall I say – your corpse has certainly risen to life? Have thoughts of a grisette roused your spirits? Or is it the ardent love of patria in whose embrace you will soon rest?" His words turned bitter at the last sentence, and briefly, Javert struggled again, embarrassed by the jests, but more so by the thought of Valjean returning to gloat.

At last, he fell still again, his chest heaving at the fire that made him ache with a strange, heavy need. Maybe even Valjean would be preferable to this madman who would share his drink and mock a man soon to be shot. Valjean was a convict. Valjean had stolen and lied and run – but he could not imagine the man mocking. Maybe not even for this, although Javert knew he deserved it.

The thought of Valjean seeing him like this brought another flush to his cheeks, and he wondered once more if it would not be better to pretend to run and have them shoot him. But even the thought of walking to the door filled him with terror, bound as he was. When Grantaire offered him more of the brandy, he drank again, then slumped forward, curling in on himself to shield his humiliation from the infuriating boy.

There were voices, he realized when a long moment had passed, and the glass had not been pressed to his lips again. Voices, talking loud and fast. He licked his lips, blinking against the tiredness that kept his eyes unfocused so that the light of the candles shone like the halo of angels behind a straight-backed man.

Something was dropped onto the table next to him. When his eyes managed to focus at last, he saw that it was a pistol, and that the angel was the commander of the insurgents, giving the drunk boy a look of chastisement. There was talk, but Javert did not care what this calm, cold man might have to say to his slovenly companion. His eyes lingered on the pistol for a moment. A quick death. Yes, that would suit him. All that remained was to walk out with his executioner. Certainly the prospect of death and the pain of walking in his bonds would be enough to diminish any of the unfortunate arousal that plagued his body. He would be shot, not long before these boys would be shot, and even without him, what was right and just would prevail while he would find rest at last.

He clenched his teeth when Valjean spoke to demand his life in payment of some debt. “That is just,” he said aloud. Let the man claim his death then. There was little time left for the convict to gloat at this turn of fate, and he would have the satisfaction to die as he had lived, firmly on the other side of those who would flee the law and authority. If it was not given to him to see this man returned to justice, at least he would die with the certitude that he had never once faltered in his pursuit.

He turned his head away from the approaching Valjean, laughing silently as he watched Grantaire stumble up the stairs once more. “We shall meet again shortly,” he called out as he watched that magician perform one final trick by turning itself into one of the walking corpses that had gathered in the tap-room. His lips were still twisted into a smile when Valjean appeared before him and gripped the martingale, although he managed to bite down on a groan just in time, despite the fire of raw skin squeezed tightly by rough hemp.

Valjean did not look at him, or speak to him, and that suited him just as well as the bullet would. When he was dragged out onto the street by the martingale, bound and bent and made small until he felt like a beast led to slaughter, he was glad for the pain to distract him. He stumbled once or twice, and swayed when he was forced to scale the small barricade in Mondetour lane, but certainly that could be blamed on being bound to the post for most of the night. There was no need for Valjean to know about the brandy that made it hard to focus on his surroundings, and even less need for him to see the perversity of his body that even now insisted on countering the steady, painful pull of the rope with the obscene ache between his legs. He would keep his dignity until the end, he promised himself. It would not be much longer now. 

"Take your revenge," he said, fixing Valjean with a stare when at last he was pushed against a crumbling wall. They were alone. Darkness surrounded them. The street was deserted; somewhere in the distance there was still the sound of trumpets. The brandy made it harder to think. His eyes kept being drawn to small details, lingering there. The whiteness of Valjean's hair in the light of the moon. The gleam of his eyes – was this the look of a man about to kill? The glint of a blade.

Ah, at last. There it was then.

"That suits you better." His lips twisted into a sneer. His bound hands grappled at the wall at his back. It would still be quick, he told himself. Valjean would cut his throat, bleed him like a butcher. That, too, was well. It was still death, and death at the hand of a criminal was not unwelcome. He would die upright and proud, and not long after him, Valjean would die when the barricade fell.

Valjean hesitated for a moment, the knife still in his hand. He leaned closer, and Javert tried to lean back, but could not escape. Valjean was too close, so close that he could feel the heat of his breath on his lips, and when he tried to press himself against the wall in an attempt to escape the unsettling attention, the motion made the rope rub against his aching prick once more so that he exhaled in torment and terrified need. 

Do not let me die like this, he prayed, unable to stop squirming against the wall, trapped and helpless at this cruel torture.

"You will not die here, Javert." Valjean eyed him with wariness. The knife still gleamed in his hand, and it was more than just the heat of the brandy that brought a flush to Javert's cheek. Had he spoken aloud? What a torment this man was! Would he never be free of him?

"You reek of drink." Valjean studied him, and now there was a new emotion in his gaze. Where before there had been an almost weary calmness with just the occasional hint of well-tempered anger, now, Javert thought, he saw a sudden interest.

He pressed himself further into the wall in denial. No. No. It was not supposed to end like this. He had never done wrong. He deserved an honourable death! An execution, yes – but not this man, this devil with his words of mercy and his acts of insurgency.

"One of your friends thought it a mercy to share his drink with a man soon to be executed." His voice was a snarl, but Valjean did not flinch back. "It does not matter! Do not drag this out, Valjean! Soon your barricade will fall. Kill me and get it over with! You have waited long for this revenge."

Javert jerked again, then groaned softly at the way the ropes cut into his flesh. He could not bear it. He could not bear any of this, the haziness which smothered thoughts that were usually sharp and straight as a blade, the heat in his limbs that seduced him into such strange relaxation even though here he stood at the precipice of his own death, facing Valjean once more for the last time, bound and rank with the fumes of brandy like that ninny of an insurgent who was probably peacefully asleep now and might even sleep through his own death while he, Javert, was forced to stand here, forced to face Valjean, to know himself vulnerable and betrayed by his body and so sensitized that the mere sensation of Valjean's breath on his face made him want to bow his head in surrender and –

He did not know. He did not know anything. All was lost, nothing was as it should be. The world turned around him in ways it should not, candles burned too brightly, darkness was too black, angles warped in ways they should not.

His pulse throbbed there between his legs, the greatest irritation of it all, so painful, so shameful that it seemed impossible to him to die like this. Certainly, even if Valjean were to slit his throat now, the sheer nature of this unnatural ache would be enough to keep him upright and alive and torment him eternally until–

"Javert?" That was Valjean's voice, and that was his hand against his cheek. Javert wanted to snarl in fury at the touch, but instead he allowed his bowed head to be raised until it rested against the wall behind him once more. There was worry on Valjean's face. He wanted to laugh at that. He heard a strange sound, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his own laughter, hoarse and almost soundless. His lips twisted into a smile. This man and his damned mercy would even cheat him of an honourable death in the end. He should have known it.

"Javert, you are drunk."

He snarled. He thought it was a snarl. Valjean still looked worried, and he did not retreat. This was tiring. He could not bear it anymore, the waiting, the thinking, the ache. The humiliation of having Valjean witness him like this, at the end.

"I am not drunk," he said. The words sounded perfectly sober and indignant. There was no slurring. He knew how drunkards spoke – had he not been forced to deal with such disturbers of the peace for every day of his service? "What are you waiting for?"

Valjean exhaled slowly. Javert looked at his lips, watched them move, studied that white beard. How old the man had grown. And yet his body still felt as strong as he had been in Montreuil. He was so close that Javert could feel the warmth of his body. Any closer and he would be able to feel the strength of those muscles. He could imagine Valjean pressing him against the wall, the way those muscles would tighten and flex, hard as stone, holding him immobile...

He could not hold back a groan this time. His hands jerked again, pulling at the rope between his legs until the burn of it made him tremble. Then Valjean's hands came forward, the knife gleamed against the rope, and he cried "No!" and slumped against Valjean with a groan, closing his eyes as he shook with something that threatened to break him apart. He could feel Valjean's hip press against his groin – the friction against his trapped prick was torturous, was heaven, and it took what little willpower remained to not rut mindlessly against him like an animal. He shuddered, his head bowed against Valjean's shoulder. Now he was Valjean's prisoner in truth, convicted by undeniable testimony. And even now, filled with such shame as he had never known before, he could not bear the thought of Valjean cutting the rope that held him trapped.

He breathed heavily. He held perfectly still, trembling at the precipice of some great fall. He imagined himself standing at a cliff. He could hear the roar of the water in his ears. But at last, the one who fell was not him. 

It was the heel of Valjean's hand that pressed against the length of his swollen prick, made him bite back a sound of need that still came out like a whine, and he trembled again, overwhelmed by how that pleasure cut deeper than a knife.


	2. Chapter 2

What had Valjean expected when he dragged Javert out into Mondetour lane by the martingale? He had expected words of derision, even threats – he knew Javert would never be swayed, and he knew that if he released him now, the shadow that had hunted him all of his life would continue to follow his every step. And still he could not act any different. He would do what he had come prepared to do: free the man, send him off, save this life as well as that of the boy, if God granted it.

He had not been prepared to see the inspector slump against the wall, eyes dark and wide as he looked at him and yet did not see, reeking of spirits. What had possessed these boys to ply their prisoner with brandy? Had Javert asked for it? He could not imagine that. A mercy then, granted a man on the cusp of death? He doubted it. The commander of these men had fondness for neither mercy nor foolishness, and it seemed to Valjean to be the latter as he looked at Javert who stared into the darkness, eyes heavy-lidded and the usually so fearsome features slack from drink. 

He had never seen Javert like this, he realized suddenly. Even in Montreuil, when Javert had been forced to bow to his superior authority, Javert had never been drunk. Javert had – and that thought made him start – never been relaxed around him, and this was what he looked like with the fierce attention of the watch dog asleep for once, or at least becalmed by the brandy

He had not planned to end the man's life. He could do it even less now, when for the first time, it seemed to him that he beheld a part of Javert that seemed almost human. Only once had he seen him so unsettled, and that had been the day when Javert had entered his office to admit what he thought of as his wrong-doing, his leather stock askew in his great agitation.

No, Javert was drunk, there was no other explanation, despite his denial. And so, that was no great surprise. Even a man like the inspector might fear death, even the vigilant watch dog might accept the mercy of forgetfulness in the hours that remained to his execution.

He raised the knife to the martingale, intending to end this quickly. Javert could still walk; he would be able to make his way from here to where the streets were still safe. Without a doubt, they would see each other again, if they lived, but Valjean felt the time approach when the chase would end. If the boy lived, Cosette would be taken from him. He would be able to rest at last; without the sunshine of her love, what did it matter if he remained a prisoner in their apartment or in Toulon.

Javert was flushed with drink, and strangely pliant. His words slurred slightly when he spoke, he gestured a little too grandly, but even so Valjean was surprised by the man's insistence. It was shock as much as Javert's sudden protest that made him lower the knife, and for a moment he wondered if even now, Javert believed him capable of murder. 

Then Javert groaned. It was a sound of torment, and suddenly the weight of the man was against him. The touch was a shock, the press of his body heavy and warm and unwanted. But Javert was trembling, he realized after a moment, not attacking, shaking against him with sudden emotion when he had never seen the man tremble before. Could this be fear of death? He put the knife away, then rested a hand hesitantly on Javert's shoulder, a strange unease spreading in him to see this stoic man brought low by emotion. The drink, he thought, and indeed there was still the scent of brandy on his breath, but certainly that alone could not be reason enough to see the inspector show weakness in his arms.

Javert's face was hidden against his shoulder. All of a sudden, the sight of his bent head conjured a vision of Cosette in his arms that was of such melancholic sweetness that only a long moment later, he realized that Javert was not only drunk, but also – Valjean flushed. There was no mistaking the heat and the hardness that pressed eagerly against his body.

He hesitated. Javert was very drunk. Drunk enough to slur his words, to look at him from overly bright eyes – drunk enough to lean against him though Valjean held a knife in his hand, and he was bound. Valjean understood little both of drunkenness and the urges of a man's body. To have Javert against him like this was a shock, and the man he had been in Montreuil might have thrust him back against the wall in indignation, if not meanwhile the man who had carried Cosette so tirelessly in his arms from Montfermeil so long ago had grown used to give love and reassurance to a child starved of affection for so long.

Javert was no child. Javert was a threat, a shadow that had clung to his heels as doggedly as the shadow of death clung to every man from his birth – and yet, there was no threat in Javert now, despite his words. Maybe this was simply the brandy that filled his stomach, but even so it was strange and unsettling to feel the inspector's weight against his body, and though Valjean called himself a fool, for this could not be trust, of all things, not between them, there was no denying that Javert had need of him. 

He looked at him, there in the darkness of the alley. Javert's face was hidden against his shoulder, the queue of hair in disarray. What he could see of his neck was flushed, and his breathing was loud and laboured in the silence that weighed heavily between them. He should cut the rope and send him away, he told himself as his eyes followed a strand of grey from Javert's brow to where it was gathered up by the ribbon. There was more grey lining his dark hair. It felt sometimes as if Javert had hunted him for all of his life, as if those mystical years before Toulon had never truly existed, but were just the tale of another man, told to him by a stranger, already half-forgotten. Had Javert a life before Toulon he remembered? 

Javert had grown old over the hunt, as had he. He wondered suddenly if Javert felt as tired as he did. If he was as much in need of rest. But maybe they would both rest soon, once the boy was returned to Cosette. Let Javert return him to the galleys then. He was old, and life without Cosette seemed impossible. He did not think he would make it to Toulon again. And what was waiting for Javert, once the convict he had hunted for so long was in chains once more? The man he had known in Montreuil had known nothing but his post. 

Javert still did not look at him, although the truth of his desire was heavy and hot between them. With his head bowed, his hair untidy, his body taut and trembling, Valjean suddenly felt pity rise in him, for he thought that to Javert, this loss of control had to be as alien and frightening as the prospect of losing his uniform had been back in Montreuil.

He swallowed. His hand hesitated uselessly in the air. He wanted – he thought he should touch Javert's face, try to give comfort however awkward it might feel, cut the rope and then set the man free, pretending that he had never felt what even now seemed to swell to further hardness between them. He bent his head a little, watched his breath stir one of the strands of grey. For one moment, he wondered what Javert's hair would feel like in his hand, against his cheek. He had nothing to compare it to but Cosette's, who would rest her head against him just like this when she was tired. 

He should let Javert go. For the sake of Cosette. For the sake of this man, who would not even remember any of this after he had slept. 

He reached out, intending to grasp the rope and pull it taut so that he could cut it – but instead, he pressed his hand to where Javert's cock pressed indecently against his trousers, large and warm through the fabric. Dampness had already seeped through where the head of his prick was squeezed between the fabric and the rope, and Valjean pressed the heel of his hand against it, hard, and Javert shuddered and released a rough, despairing moan into his shoulder.

The sound woke something in him. He had never heard Javert make such a sound before. He knew even now that he should step away, that Javert was drunk, that even now there was a way out and by tomorrow they could pretend that nothing had come to pass, that tomorrow he would give himself to Javert and Javert would give him to justice and this would never be spoken of again.

That was one choice. There was another; he saw it clear now. He could give in to that sudden, strange need in him to keep his hand where it was, to press it against Javert's prick and feel his heat, the throbbing pulse of him. He could watch his face as that proud, upright man came apart and broke at his touch and rubbed himself against his hand in despair, tied and hurting and drunk. Maybe Javert would even forgive him by the morning. He much thought he would, for Javert would never think to blame him for what had come to pass. Javert, who had judged himself so harshly in Montreuil, would judge himself just as harshly for this, and would blame himself for allowing that boy to ply him with drink until he swayed where he stood.

Valjean breathed deeply, watching the way the dark, sweat-damp hairs at Javert's nape trembled with every breath. Javert's life was in his hand. He had already decided not to use the pistol he had been given. Could he decide any different now, when by his touch he might save or damn this man just as well as by bullet or blade?

“Damn you.” Javert's voice was a whine against his neck, soft and slurred. Valjean looked at him for a moment, but still Javert did not move, and he could not see his face, only marvel at the way Javert had reverted to respectfully address him as _vous_. Again he thought that he should remove his hand before he damned them both. Javert was drunk. And no matter what was between them, he had no right to take advantage of the man's state to–

Javert's mouth was on him all of a sudden. It was – a kiss, he thought awkwardly, overwhelmed, and then Javert's tongue was in his mouth, and he tasted brandy and heat, and then he did not think at all for a long moment. When they drew apart, he licked at his lips, tasting brandy and Javert's spit and thinking, dimly, that this should be disgusting – but he felt Javert against his hand, still so hard, so hot, the helpless little motions Javert made to rub against him, involuntary jerks of his hips in the same rhythm as his panting breath against Valjean's neck.

Valjean swallowed. “Let me free you,” he said, watching Javert carefully for a reaction. “You are hurting. Let me just cut the rope, Javert...”

“No.” Javert's answer was immediate, and Valjean would have disregarded it had he not, at that moment, his fingers pressed to where Javert's cock pressed obscenely against his trousers. He looked at Javert again, the tangle of his hair, the damp, flushed skin of his neck. He pulled his hand away, intending to disregard the man's protests. Clearly Javert was too drunk to realize what he was doing. And perhaps, by the time Javert was sober enough to remember the indignity of what had come to pass, he would already be dead.

Javert groaned. “Just kill me! That is what you have desired for so long.” 

Valjean shook his head, gazing at Javert with pity although he could not see it. “You are drunk. It is not your fault, I know. Of all the many things I might have chosen to complain of, inspector, drink was never one of your faults.”

Javert looked up at last, colour high on his cheeks, his brows drawn together in puzzled offence. “Faults? I never gave reason for complaint, surely, except for when I renounced you– no, no, even that was warranted, that was right, I was right there, I've always been right about you...” His sentence with slurred mumblings too low for Valjean to make sense of, and he could not help but smile. 

“You were right.” That admission was not hard to make. “But you were also wrong. And you are still wrong, if you believe I would harm you.”

Javert shook his head, then groaned again when the motion pulled on the taut rope. “I was never wrong. You would be a fool not to use your chance. You tricked me in Montreuil, you will not do it again.”

"Javert, I do not seek to trick you." Valjean exhaled slowly. Patience came easily now, and yet, with Javert, it still seemed as hard-won as it had been when he first put away his name to become another man. His breath stirred a strand of grey, and again he reminded himself of the many years that had passed. Certainly even Javert must be weary of the chase now. 

"I will be yours, I promise. If I survive, I will consider myself your prisoner, and you may do as you see fit. Now please, allow me to cut–"

"No!" Javert's exclamation was a furious denial, and his head reared up so that he could stare at Valjean with eyes wide with a sudden, inexplicable rage. "No, you will not – I do not want your mercy, do you hear me? You have no right, no right at all, to – to go and release me as if you weren't that convict, that fugitive from the law, as if you were – Put me to death! I demand it! It is my right, and you shall not deny me now!"

All that was delivered in a voice softened by drink so that consonants slurred together, given harshness by a night spent awake and bound. Valjean could not help but smile again, his expression growing infinitely gentler at that ludicrous demand.

"You ask me for death, Javert? Death is no man's right. What good would your death do? You have me now, you see? I am bound by my word, as securely as you are bound by that rope, I promise. If I live, I shall not run. You will never have to doubt–"

"But I do doubt!" Javert snarled into his face, strands of his hair sticking to his cheeks, his eyes dark and lit by a feverish gleam. "I doubt! You make me doubt! Devilish man! Cursed saint! Who are you that you dare – that you dare to release me, show me mercy, like – you have no right, do you hear me? You will end this here! You will do what you promised that ninny of an insurgent! It is only right; you are a criminal, I am of the police; I am your prisoner, and you will take your revenge! Do it now!"

Valjean sighed. There was a certain emotion in his eyes – not pity, though Javert would have taken it for that, who took mercy to be cruelty, and kindness to be an insult. Instead, it was its gentler sister, compassion – empathy for a struggling man, for Valjean understood the pain at least that spoke from Javert's words. Not once had he desired to do harm to this man, although he had been unable to resist the temptation when fate gave him the chance to drag him out by his bonds, to allow this man who had so relentlessly hunted him a few moments of fear, of knowing the pain of a man bound and led like an animal to slaughter. 

“You are cruel! I cannot even say, you will not even let me– You do not know anything!“ Javert bit back a sound of frustration, in agony at the mercy he was granted. “What do you want! Just kill me! Have it done with!”

Valjean found himself laughing again, almost against his will, at how Javert delivered that complaint with utter earnestness although he was swaying against him. Javert still slurred his words, and he was very warm and physical against him. It did not feel as strange anymore as it had at first, and drunk as he was, the mere thought of doing him harm was inconceivable. Javert frowned at him after a moment, his lips parting, as if it had taken him that long to realize that Valjean was laughing at him in answer to his demand, and before he could utter another word of nonsense, Valjean leaned forward and brushed their lips together again.

He could not even say why he did it. To kiss the man who had asked him for death, the same man who would sooner see him in chains and return to a prison, that should have been just as ludicrous as Javert's ridiculous, drunk demands.

Instead, it felt – Valjean had no word for it. It made Javert stop complaining, and that was good. It melted some of the harshness out of the man, and that was unexpected, and did something to him. A strange warmth gathered inside him when Javert's lips softened beneath his, when Javert's tongue slid against his own, slick and wet and hot, and it should have been disgusting, to taste him like this when he had never indulged such things before, and it was, but also, it made him feel warm, and strangely unsettled, as if the press of Javert's body against his own was something he had missed without ever knowing it.

Javert's prick pressed against his thigh, still hot and hard even through the layers of cloth, and he pressed his hand against him again without breaking the kiss, feeling Javert jerk and gasp at the contact. His fingers played over the length of him, mapping the shape of his head squeezed between the coarse rope, drinking in the pained, pleased gasp this produced, and when he looked at Javert he found that his eyes had rolled back, unfocused and dark as he trembled against him, this rigid man who had never trembled before.

"Javert," he said against his lips, then fell silent. He did not know what to say. He had no words for the tension in him. He knew he should not touch him like this – to kiss this man, to kiss him like this, here – there was no sense to it, no reason, and yet the heat that spread in his body seemed reason enough to one who had never known the feeling before. 

Javert breathed heavily. He was silent now, and that was good, at least. His lips that had been harsh so often, that were used to forming words sharp and angular and abrasive, had felt soft and yielding beneath his, and that had been pleasing for all the strangeness of the experience. He still thought faintly that it should be disgusting, but Javert's lips were glistening with saliva, and the thought of the taste of his own spit filling Javert's mouth did something to him, his stomach twisting with a sudden apprehension even while his fingers traced the line of Javert's prick once more.

“I deserve it. It is only right. Even you cannot deny that.” Javert's voice was low and intense, and Valjean could not stand it anymore all of a sudden, that pain, and worse, that torment of knowing that Javert thought him capable of ending a life. Would they never escape from the paths Javert had decreed they must follow?

He did not attempt to cut the rope again, knowing deep inside that such a blatant disregard of what roles Javert had assigned them would make the man baulk, and he could not bear that thought, for all that what had come to pass frightened him. Instead, his hand worked frantically at the fabric that was already damp from the fluids that had seeped through it, and when at last he managed to open Javert's trousers enough to free the cock that was even now straining against his hand, he found him slick and hot, and he licked his lips, strangely breathless as he pressed the pad of his thumb to the fluid, circled the head.

He trailed his fingers down the straining shaft, felt the roughness of the taut ropes that made him wince at the way they must pinch sensitive skin – that was cruelty, he thought, and made himself pull back, the look he gave Javert almost imploring. “Just – Javert, please! You are in pain, just, let me cut that rope–”

Javert panted against his shoulder, then tried to press himself against his hip in search of friction, a broken sound escaping him that was in equal parts frustration and anger. “Damn you – just touch me already, Valjean!”

The drink had only made him more obstinate, Valjean thought, his mouth dry. He knew he should not. But almost without thought, his fingers were in his mouth, he licked them – tasted that slickness on them, almost choked on the sudden thought of Javert on his tongue, heavy and big, that bitterness seeping down his throat – and he could not stop now, not when Javert was wanting this touch, was begging for it even. He touched him with what kindness he could muster in his despairing need, smoothing the slickness of his saliva over the patches of rough, hot skin where the rope had chafed against Javert's prick, trying to ease that pain the man had to be feeling until Javert rocked against his hand and his breath came in little sobs. Javert's lips were slack as he brushed his mouth against them, tasted the sharpness of the brandy as their tongues slid together. He imagined that he could taste himself in Javert's mouth, and Javert – Javert shuddered and ground against him and breathed desperate little sounds into his mouth as he gripped his prick. He stroked him more roughly than he had intended, for the angle was awkward and Javert's body flush against his and there was the rope that bound him. And yet it did not seem to matter to Javert who made sounds of pleasure and despair when he smoothed his thumb over the head of that straining prick again, smoothing more of the slick fluid over him, and he thought of waking tomorrow with that taste, that scent on his fingers, if he would even wake, and suddenly that seemed worth even imprisonment to him.

Javert made a sound that was half a whine, panting open-mouthed against his lips, and Valjean swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, cleaning up a string of saliva, then closed his teeth around it, sucking it into his mouth until Javert arched forward, his whine turning into a sob, the noose tightening around his throat as he shuddered, his spend seeping wetly through Valjean's fingers.

Valjean raised his hand to his mouth, breathless, unthinking, touched the glistening fluid with the tip of his tongue for a taste, and Javert, who had watched from wide, wild eyes, crumpled against him at last. Valjean felt a wetness against his neck, and felt suddenly stricken with regret. Were those tears? Had he–

“Javert, you must let me now–” He reached for the rope urgently, and Javert did not protest this time, silent and strangely yielding as he cut his bonds at last. Javert did not pull away, and that was frightening. He brushed a thumb in a gentling motion against the patch of chafed, red skin at his neck, and at last Javert looked up again, despondent and lost, as if something had been taken from him.

“You were supposed to take my life. It was my right.” His voice was soft, but even. Valjean could still hear the drink in him, but he seemed less like a spooked animal now, simply tired, as if yielding at last to a burden he had carried too long. Valjean kept a hand on him as he stepped beside him, then cut through the remains of the rope that kept his hands bound. 

“Javert, I do not want you dead.”

There was soft laughter then, and Javert's voice was still so rough it could just as well have been a sob. “But you are not supposed to–” He fell silent and lowered his head. Valjean hesitated before he touched his shoulder.

“Leave. Wait for me, if you want. If I live, I will deliver myself to you, as I said.”

“No.” Javert shook his head, and Valjean sighed.

“Go!”

Javert had the temerity to stare into his eyes, strangely triumphant, his face flushed from drink and–

Valjean's eyes slid away after resting on his swollen, glistening lips for a moment. “Go,” he repeated, and now it was no command but a helpless plea. “If you stay, you will die. If they still find you here, after I promised to deal with you...”

Javert's mouth twisted into something that resembled a smile, and Valjean felt a sudden chill, even before he turned to face the man who had just scaled the small barricade.


	3. Chapter 3

“So this is how you execute the spy?”

The commander of the insurgents had come after him. Even as dizzy and weakened as Javert felt after the release Valjean's hand had given him, there was something like pleasure in the thought of things unfolding as they should, the law being upheld in its own, twisted way. Where a man of the law would not bend when insurgency turned the world upside down, order would be returned when the police spy would be shot, and the insurgent would prove himself lawless

He gave Valjean a pleased smile. Valjean should have listened. Javert had explained all of this to him, but of course, as always Valjean had been too preoccupied with his mercy, his compassion, his twisted notions of justice, his hands that had been so rough and so good when they touched him in his agony of need–

He shook his head a little to drive away the disturbing heat that followed that thought, but then began to slowly, meticulously, neaten his trousers, looking down in uncomprehending confusion when a task he had performed every day for fifty years had become suddenly troublesome, as if his fingers were too large to perform this simple duty.

He frowned, ignoring the insurgent. “Order is important,” he said to himself, for certainly he could not expect any help from someone who stood poised to topple the very order that kept society stable, and one who had vexed him for decades with the very fact of his law-defying existence.

Someone was swaying. It had to be Valjean, of course, bumping into him to vex him even more. That was the reason he could not neaten his appearance – just another devilish trick to torment him. He leaned against Valjean's shoulder, his hand clutching his arm to stop him from moving. Valjean ignored him, and Javert made a displeased sound as he pulled at the disobedient fabric once more, angered and confused by the fabric's unpleasant dampness. It had not rained – had it? He did not think that it had rained.

“You gave this man to me. One life for a life. Certainly it is my own business how I deal with him.”

Javert abandoned his trousers with a sound of profound unhappiness. This was not right. A man of the law should not leave his rooms with his clothes in such disarray. 

“You are in league with the police spy after all.” Enjolras looked at him, his face very pale and very cold in the dim light of the moon, and Javert's eyes narrowed in recognition.

“That is me,” he said, nodding at the proclamation. “The police spy. Did he tell you that, that damned man? He is not, of course. He is–”

“No.” Valjean's rapid interruption made him frown again. “No, I am still willing to remain and fight. But I will not kill this man, and I cannot let you kill him either.”

Those words, at last, woke something in him. Through the haze of brandy, the memory of the order of things returned, at least in part. What he remembered was enough to make a man cry; instead, Javert laughed against Valjean's shoulder. It was a low laugh, born of of despair and terrible amusement. He could escape this man no more than he could escape his mercy. To think _this_ a mercy, to think his touch a mercy, to think – to try and save him when all Javert had begged for was the death that was his due, a death according to the law, upholding authority even in the face of such rebellion against all that was right! And to think that he, Javert, had not only submitted to such a touch, but had asked for it!

He wanted to damn himself, but even now, with the damned rope gone, with the twisted, devilish urges sated, with his trousers damp and sticky and uncomfortable, to be worn like the mark of humiliation they were – even now he remembered those strong fingers, work-hardened and rough, touching him with such surprising gentleness. Valjean had touched him with more care than anyone had in almost fifty years. Was he afraid of Valjean still? Yes. Yes, he was. But no longer did he fear a knife, or a bullet. What he feared now was that vast emptiness that stared him in the face and which bore the name of mercy. To receive compassion from a convict, to see empathy on the face of one who by all rights should own no soul, should carry no goodness within him...

What could one do in such a situation? The law had not prepared him for such a thing. The bible might, but the church had never been more to him than one more pillar that upheld society's stability. He had not cared for anything beyond that.

Maybe that insurgent would shoot him. Maybe he would shoot them both. That would be justice well served then.

His lips parted; no sound came out. It would be justice to have Valjean shot, here at the barricade. His life would be no loss to the law. Why then did the thought make something within him shiver and crack, like a stone exposed too long to the frost? 

He dropped to his knees almost without thought and leaned his head against Valjean's thigh, knowing himself to be little more than the loyal dog returned to his master's side once more. “Yes, leave me here with him. That is the cruellest turn you could deal me.” His voice was bitter, and dimly, through the haze of brandy, he felt the bone-deep exhaustion and ache of a night spent tied to a post. He felt old now, and weary, a dog reaching the end of his usefulness. What was left there when one could no longer guard? Should he, in his weakened state, lick the hand of Valjean, this thief, this intruder whom he was sworn to hunt?

He did not look at the man who held their fate in his hands. Let them shoot him, let them allow the convict to keep him, it was all the same to him. Death, at least, would save him from the vexation of Valjean's relentless mercy. It was false. It had to be false. Had Valjean forgotten what it meant to be a convict, to sleep on a plank, to toil all day, to wear the red blouse?

"This man is a spy." Javert did not look up when Enjolras came closer. They all knew that his assessment was correct, the same as they all knew how such a problem as a spy in the midst of rebellion was to be solved, even though Valjean liked to pretend that to him, the rules of such situations did not apply. "We have decided his fate. In truth, the National Guard decided his fate when they shot the man we would have been willing to barter his life for. No, he is of no need to us now. His death, at least, will serve a purpose."

"What purpose? You know as well as I that there shall be death enough in the coming hours. His death makes no difference." Valjean took a deep breath. Javert refused to raise his face. It felt strangely right, to kneel here before him. Valjean might talk unceasingly of mercy, but he could not deny the reality of this. This was who Javert was. A prisoner, on his knees, waiting for his executioner to stop talking and finish what they all knew was just. It was very simple, after all. He could even let that foolish boy do it for him.

"Please." Valjean's voice softened a little. "I know this man. He is... I have known him for many, many years. There is a debt between us. And look at what your own men have done to him. He is very drunk. He is not in possession of his senses. Let his life not end in dishonour. You would not wish for such a death for any of your friends."

Javert contemplated for a moment the chances of overpowering that fool of a student. He could take his gun, and he could...

His thoughts faltered there. Force Valjean to kill him, as he should, as was his right? His thoughts seemed slow, encumbered by a mist. Almost he felt like a man walking while lost in a dream. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to force himself to think.

It did not help, he could not think what Valjean would do. And so; Valjean was a fool, and a convict. Maybe that student would shoot him if Javert came towards him. He allowed himself a grim smile at his brilliance despite the brandy's infuriating meddling with his thoughts. Yes, that was what would happen. Of course he would shoot. None of Valjean's ridiculous demands for mercy would keep him from executing a spy. That ninny of a boy might be a fool, but he was the commander of this insurgency, and he knew the role he must play, and what was right and wrong.

"Always a convict," he said, nodding a little with the pleasure of being proven right again. Only a convict would not know what was right and wrong in a situation like this. Convicts talking of compassion were wrong. Of course Valjean did not know that, since he knew nothing of the order of things otherwise either.

He raised a hand to his head, frowning at the way the figure of that insurgent swam in and out of focus. He should get up. It was a good plan. A brilliant plan. M. Gisquet would applaud him for such a plan.

He sighed deeply and leaned his head against Valjean's thigh again. It was a very good plan. He would get up as soon as he could see clearly.

There was a long pause. If there was talk, he did not hear it. When he looked up again at last, the boy had come much closer, standing in front of them although his gun was lowered, and he looked down at Javert with an expression of distaste mingle with incomprehensible pity. Javert scowled. He wanted to tell him what exactly he thought of their damned pity, but then Valjean took hold of his arms and raised him carefully. He scowled at Valjean instead. "You," he said, and waited expectantly. 

When there was silence, he narrowed his eyes. "You. Always the same. You, your... pity." He nodded with satisfaction when he found the word at last. That insult would show them. He was not to be insulted. Not with their pity. He was Javert, and he was an inspector of the police. The police was not to be pitied.

"Please," Valjean said once more, ignoring him, and Javert wanted to rage at his calmness. This was not a time to be calm. No criminal was allowed to be so calm in the face of justice.

When Enjolras spoke, his voice was different as well. "I see now," he said, and there was even greater coldness in his words. Javert was glad of Valjean's touch that kept him upright, and then scowled at himself for that thought. "Yes, I see very well, you need not speak further. You tricked me, Monsieur, and you know it. This is not what I agreed to when I gave that spy into your keeping. I think I should shoot you both and be done with it, but you have done us a favour, several favours indeed, and I agree that what Grantaire did to him was not kindly done. I would execute a man for drunkenness, but how can I do so when it was one of our own who took advantage of a defenseless man? It is well; you have bought his life, Monsieur, but nothing else. You will remain, as you said you would, or else I will need to change my opinion and shoot two traitors instead of one drunk spy."

Javert wanted to laugh. "Traitor," he said in disbelief, and then laughed after all. The sound of it made him flinch, but he could not stop. Valjean did not release him, but neither did he protest.

"I will remain. I said I would. I did not come for this man, though I can see that is what you think. But it was chance that brought us together once more. No, I came to stand with you. I will remain, and he will live."

"But I do not want to live!" Javert felt belligerent. He would have taken hold of Valjean's shoulders, to try and shake some sense into this man who continued to elude and frustrate him with every word he spoke, but Valjean's hand came to rest on his own shoulder then, his fingers curling gently around his nape, and he fell silent, rendered speechless by the tenderness of that gesture. The tips of Valjean's fingers were warm against his skin, and touched him so lightly that Javert did not dare to move. 

"There," Valjean said at last, and his voice was as gentle as his touch, and so intimate that a part of Javert trembled with disquiet. This was not as it should be. "He is gone. He will not be back for you, I do not think, though I must return. What I told him was true, and you know it, of course. I did not come for you. There is a boy here, whom I must – but this is not the time to make conversation. You have no mind for such things, Javert, and you want to hear nothing of compassion, I know it well. You are free. I am sorry it had to happen like this, but I am not sorry it made him release you."

Javert gave him a tired look. His eyes widened with sudden realization when Valjean's hand quickly neatened his stained trousers. 

"He... Oh," he said, and then was quiet again, trying to imagine what that fool must have thought. "That ninny! You... Oh!" he said again, at a loss for words. That fool had thought... Oh! And that was well, for he had been right in his assumption.

Valjean leaned closer and laughed very softly against his mouth. "Well, I am not sorry it bought your freedom."

"You would have done the same for anyone," Javert said, and earned a short, surprised laugh in return.

"Your senses are certainly returning, Inspector, if you can joke with me." Valjean looked at him, and Javert felt all unhappiness and insecurity fall away for a moment. That look in his eyes was very different. Certainly Madeleine had never looked at him like that. Certainly no convict should be able to look at another like that. As if... 

Javert found he had no words to describe it.

"As if looking at me pleases you," he said finally, and then frowned at the sound of his own voice. Valjean did not release him. Instead, his smile widened a little, and Javert looked with fascination at the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the lines surrounding his mouth. He thought of tracing them with his fingers, exploring that secret of this man's smiles, learning the taste of happiness through touch and exploration.

"Maybe it does." Valjean still smiled, though there was sadness in it now. Javert reached out to trace those new lines with a frown, entranced and fascinated and annoyed at once, eager to smooth them away.

"I do not want your death. You must believe that, Javert." Javert nodded, still looking at Valjean's mouth. He remembered the touch of those lips. Kissing. That was what it had been. Kissing, the taste of him, the wetness of saliva and the warmth of him... How odd to have these memories. How wrong to look at this man, to know him for the criminal he was, and to think of how strange and pleasing his touch had been.

“I gave you my address. I want you to live, Javert." Valjean's voice was still very calm. Javert found it hard to concentrate on his words. What they had done was too distracting. How could Valjean want to continue this charade after what they had one? What they had been was lost. The clearly delineated roles of their past were gone, washed away like colours on paper by the brandy that had been poured into him. Javert would not have kissed a convict. He remembered the kiss; it had happened. He tasted it on his tongue still. It followed that either Valjean was no escaped convict, or that he was no longer Javert. His head ached, more from the sudden conundrum of making sense of his own actions than from the alcohol.

Maybe this was why they said that drink drove men to madness, he thought with bitterness. He was half mad already. Half mad to have done it, half mad now to live in a world where that had taken place, where he could not even make himself wish it had not. 

"Will you do that for me? Will you cease talking of death? There will be death tonight, we both know I cannot stop the fighting to come. But let me do this, at least. Let me release you. Come for me afterwards. You have my address, and I give you my word that I will no longer run." Valjean paused, and Javert felt a new disquiet rise in him at the thought that Valjean might die here, at the barricade. That was wrong too, he thought, surprised, despairing. Would this man never cease to vex him? No, he could not stand for him to die, though certainly, that would be just. 

"Take your revenge for this in whatever way you please." Valjean reached out to lay his fingers against his cheek, daring. Javert wanted to turn into his touch. He did not, though the desire was there – to ask for more of that reluctant gentleness, to be the dog to lick this convict's hand... "Keep safe, Javert." His eyes were clear and calm, and Javert thought that he had to read his desire for Valjean's touch in his own eyes. He knew this was true when Valjean pulled him closer, the kiss brushed against his forehead this time, a benediction, a prayer, and in its own way as scandalous as that indecent kiss had been earlier. Javert felt something inside him tremble at the gesture.

"The streets are dangerous, and that boy got you very, very drunk. Be careful.” 

Javert wanted to speak, but there were no words. He was flushed with heat from the drink. He had been flushed with shame earlier, but now that, too, was gone – all that was left was a deep feeling of disquiet. Valjean had flushed his veins with unrest just as insurgence had flushed the streets of the city. Was this, then, his body's uprising against his will? Worse, his heart's rebellion against his mind? His heart's – oh, to even contemplate such a thing!

He wanted to argue, but how could he protest when he could not even put words to this growing unease within him. He only knew that things were not right; a world was in disarray; order reversed; the pillars of society toppling, threatening to fall; and Valjean just smiled, ever so carefully, as if it were Javert who would crumble at the slightest touch instead of all that held society upright. 

He protested in the end, but somehow, the ground was swaying beneath him once more, contriving with Valjean so that his lips ended up against the man's mouth and his words were nothing but a slurred grumble even in his own ears. Embarrassment set in at that realization – to sound like a drunkard, he, Javert! – but then his tongue swiped against Valjean's lip by accident and he froze, shivered, undecided until Valjean at last saved him and gently took him by the arm to lead him down Mondetour lane.

"Go," he said. Javert saw the worry in his eyes, and something held him back this time. He wanted to protest again. The words were still there, that terrible conviction that this was where his life would end, that this place was where things between them would be set right and he would be shot – but instead, he stumbled away, overwhelmed, torn by doubt, aching at the way the drink had eaten away all certainties until what remained was no better than the men and women he spent a lifetime beating down into the gutter they belonged. 

He could hear the shots in the distance, the sound of trumpets, drums, cries. Maybe more brandy would drown them out. Maybe more brandy would drown the cacophony of thought that had made him fall prey to such madness. But he had never succumbed to that weakness before, and having tried it once, he was too afraid of this sudden unrest within his chest that had followed the drink's fire. He stumbled towards where he knew men of the National Guard would be waiting, where the world was still as it should be, half thinking that if he could not drown himself in brandy or in kisses, then maybe he should drown himself in the Seine.

Instead, after he found an officer who recognized him, after he found himself a carriage, he gave the driver what coin he had in his pockets and leaned his head against window as they slowly passed along the Seine.

Maybe he was drunk, or maybe he was not drunk enough. Later, he could never decide what made him stop the carriage and tell the driver to wait. 

He slept. He dreamed, at least that was what he thought – but dreams never smelled that badly before. When Valjean appeared in his dream, dragging a foul-smelling corpse into the carriage with him, Javert recoiled and tried to protest. In his dream, he stumbled over his words again, slurring through sentences until he grew angry and embarrassed with himself, although Valjean just told him to be silent. He sounded weary and exhausted, and maybe, Javert thought, this was the sort of dream where he should try to offer comfort. But he had never dreamed that sort of dream before and even in this dream, the mere thought was embarrassing. With the way Valjean reeked of whatever filth he dragged his corpse from, Javert felt grateful that at least he did not get kissed into silence anymore. He did not want that sort of dream either. Not the kissing, nor the stink of corpses. What he wanted instead was simple, dreamless sleep, and with Valjean in the carriage to watch over him like his personal, tormenting demon, he fell asleep at last. He did not wake again until the carriage stopped, and when he followed Valjean out, he was led into a house, and towards a small, simple bed, and before he fell asleep again in his dream, he realized that the linens smelled faintly of Valjean. This time, he was too tired to deny the small, reluctant warmth that welled up in him.


End file.
